‘Fat? Oh, don’t be ridiculous. You should have seen some of the fabulous Maori girls in Otago. Now theywerebig girls. You didn’t mess with them when they were hurtling down the pitch at hundred miles an hour towards you, intent on destruction.’
‘No way! Absolutely no way,’ I protested, laughing. ‘Nope.’
* * *
The following Thursday I found myself standing on the side lines of Upper Merton village hockey pitch. Like Beddingfield village, Upper Merton had its own cricket pitch and village green but, unlike Beddingfield – and both sponsored by the village pub – a thriving hockey as well as football team. The two teams apparently shared the pitch as well as what appeared to be a newly built clubhouse at the far side of the area.
‘Goodness,’ I said as the girls ran onto the field, started to limber up and Serena came to stand by my side, reaching into the pocket of her navy logoed top before fitting her mouthguard. ‘I’d absolutely no idea you had all this.’ I waved a hand around the neat little pitch, at what appeared to be new goalposts and a large white scoreboard still showing the Upper Merton v Beddingfield football results of the previous weekend. Upper Merton had, seemingly, slaughtered my own village football team (Dean had said Beddingfield had gone downhill once he’d left playing for the team to take up golf) and I felt a tiny frisson of guilt that I was standing here on what I supposed was enemy territory.
‘Well, we have to share it with the men. Although, to be fair, there’s an up-and-coming women’s football team as well. I’m actually thinking of giving it a go.’ Serena broke off. ‘I can see you as a great defender, Jess. Nothing would get past you!’
‘Not sure if I should take that as a compliment!’
‘Oh, you must.’ Serena laughed. ‘Yes, George did us proud.’ Serena sucked at her mouthguard. ‘God, I hate these things.’
‘George?’
‘Oh, sorry, George Sattar. You won’t know him, I don’t suppose – one of the Frozen Sattars? Mind you, I hear the Frozen lot now have an interest in Hudson House. Anyway, George is big into football and came up trumps for the refurbishment of the clubhouse. The Dog and Duck might sponsor us the best way it can, but there was no way they could pay for all these fantastic new facilities. Anyway, George coughed up – didn’t even ask that the club be renamed Frozen.’ Serena laughed.
‘Well, thank goodness for that. And I’m surprisedhe’shad a hand in all this.’ I gave a derogatory sniff as an uncomfortable flashback of myself popped, unbidden, into my head. Me, flailing on my back like an upturned beetle on Kamran’s cream carpet, hand wrapped round the orange plastic bag handle while George just stood and laughed down at me.
‘George? Why are you surprised he’s helped the village?’ Serena gave me a look. ‘He’s gorgeous, don’t you think? I tell you, I keep looking on Hinge hoping he might pop up and I can swipe right. Mind you, I don’t suppose he will when he’s so full on withMina.’ Serena paused, obviously hoping to impress with this little juicy titbit regarding George Sattar’s love life.
When I said nothing, didn’t quite know what to say, Serena went on. ‘Mina?You know who I mean – the top model?’
I nodded.
‘She’s from round here, you know. Leeds, I think.’
I nodded again, reaching round Serena to see what was happening on the pitch, more interested in watching the women limbering up under the direction of a somewhat older, diminutive but seemingly very vocal coach, than gossip about Mina.
‘Right, stay there,’ Serena instructed. ‘Watch and then see if you fancy joining us next practice. But either way, come and have a drink at The Dog and Duck. I know Carole would love to meet you again…’ And with that she was off, running onto the pitch, swiping with her stick as she ran.
Carole? I peered across the now floodlit pitch, my attention on the coach. Surely not? Surely not Miss Moorhouse? Carole Moorhouse, games mistress at Beddingfield Comp whose hockey boots had received the frogspawn filched from the tank in the biology lab in revenge for being dropped from the team for a week? I’d always felt guilty that those poor little frogs’ eggs had been trampled on by Miss Moorhouse’s hockey socks rather than turning into the tadpoles and frogs they’d aspired to be. Mind you, if left to grow into adulthood in the biology lab, they’d only have been chloroformed and split open, a rabble of overexcited adolescents pretending to vomit and faint as they went in as instructed, scalpels to hand.
ItwasMiss Moorhouse. Well, fancy that. Years on, and she was still in the area; still coaching hockey. Was she still at Beddingfield Comp – Beddingfield High now? Would Lola be taught by her once she went there in September? When Mum had been taken ill with one of the awful bouts of porphyria and carted off to hospital once again, Carole Moorhouse had been really kind to both myself and Robyn. What on earth had Serena and I done to be dropped from the team for a week? I couldn’t for the life of me remember; only that Serena had insisted we get our own back on her with the frogspawn present.
As I watched, it was hard not to shout words of advice when quite a few of the players were going at the ball so blatantly wrongly. ‘Too much ball watching,’ I muttered. ‘Focus on your teammates and what they’re up to…’ and ‘Stop diving in! Diving for tackles just causes chaos.’ As well as: ‘Stop running in straight lines for heaven’s sake. The defence can easily tackle you if you insist on doing that…’
‘You seem to know a lot about it, love.’ An older man had appeared at my side. ‘Why aren’t you out there on the pitch?’
Embarrassed, I said, ‘Sorry, didn’t know anyone could hear me.’
‘You obviously know what the game’s all about. Do you play?’
‘Not since I left school,’ I said. ‘Have to say I find myself itching to get on the pitch again. Funnily enough’ – I lowered my voice – ‘I’ve just realised the coach is my old games’ teacher.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, she was brilliant. I think I had a bit of a crush on her to be honest.’ I laughed, embarrassed once more. ‘Don’t all adolescent girls have a thing about their games’ mistress?’
‘Very probably.’ The man laughed in return. ‘Mind you, I had a thing about Carole Moorhouse as well.’
‘Oh?’ I turned to look at him. He must have been in his late-fifties, attractive with a totally bald head. There was something about a totally bald-headed man that was just so sexy. Funny that, because a semi-balding man – particularly if said man insisted on a combover – was a real turn off. He was dressed in full sports kit. ‘Youweren’t at Beddingfield Comp as well, were you?’
He laughed again. ‘No, I just married the games’ mistress.’
‘Oh, did you? Which one…’ I trailed off. ‘Oh, you’re married toMiss Moorhouse?’
